for a second.

tion and contempt. "Or do we draw the line here," he asks, "after mi

alternative is walking out without the money and without any way to fix the mess that keeps my pa

, revealing a sliver of skin and the edge of his collarbone. My throat tightens. I move to the

simply lets me undo him, one small plastic circle at a time, as if thi

o keep going. The shirt hangs a little looser around his frame, open enough to show the faint lin

or the ne

h," he

mid-movement, hovering just above the fabric. I look

r. It is pure disgust, deep and unfiltered, directed as much at him

s. His voice is low and precise. "You will

if the buttons themselves have scalded me. The fabric hangs partly open, the undone buttons a

ivot might as well be a slap. "Leave," he says. Hi

moment in which I could still claim some sort of moral high ground by refusing. The problem with moral h

lt. I know better than to stay and try to salvage anything from this wreckage. There is nothing here for me but a chec

floor even though I am trying not to make a sound. The door handle is cool under my

.. I hesitate fo

walking away like this feels like

the doo

ithout lo

my p

floor, crumpled beside whatever re

t, less hostile but more hollow. I pull the door shut behind me, and the soft cl

ll button and stare straight ahead at the far wall, refusing to look back over my shoulder. I know if I do, I will imagine him standing the

ck at me again, but this time I barely recognize the woman staring back. Her lipstick is smudged at the corner of her mouth where she bi

indifferent. Adrian's signature curls across the bottom in decisive strok

enerous enough to give him that satisfaction. My reflection swallows hard at me from the mirror, and for on

, because it does. It will keep certain doors from closing and cert

ow, heavy realization settles over me like ash. Whatever this night was suppos

aling me in with my reflection again,

e the

ever-never-f

e Adrian Steele isn't